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Wi-Fi, not whiskey, the new stock-in-trade of Toronto sailor’s mission

Victoria’s Secret, Best Buy and beer are top priorities for sailors in Toronto, says Rev. Judith Alltree.

Rev. Judith Alltree runs the Mission to Seafarers in Toronto, which provides religious services, hot meals, cold drinks, and free Wi-Fi to sailors from around the world. Wednesday is International Day of the Seafarer. (Eric Andrew-Gee / TORONTO STAR) | Order this photo

The building on the pier has a haunted look, a ramshackle two-storey cottage marooned in a sea of empty lots, covered in what looks like cobwebs (it’s seasonal cottonwood fluff), and drowning in eerie silence just a five-minute walk from the Gardiner Expressway. It seems to be a sanctuary, or abandoned.

As it turns out, the Mission to Seafarers is a bit of both. Sitting on Pier 51 in Toronto’s docklands, the chapel-cum-clubhouse ministers to the needs of sailors docking in the city’s port.

These days, the building is used lightly — about 1,000 seamen cross the mission’s threshold in a typical year. On Tuesday, the eve of International Day of the Seafarer, its only occupants were Rev. Judith Alltree and the organization’s treasurer.

But for sailors who use the cottage, it can be an oasis. Thirty-three saltwater ships, or “salties”, called at Toronto last year, according to the port authority. (Lake boats rarely dock long enough to use the mission.)

Once they’ve deposited their cargos of sugar from Central America or steel pipe from India — two port staples — the men usually have four to eight days off, depending on the weather. Strangers in the city, their first stop is often the mission where the sea dogs relish solid ground, slump in shabby sofas and avail themselves of anachronistic phone booths.

So rarely seasick, sailors are almost always homesick and when they hit dry land, they usually fire up Skype and call their wives. “ ‘Hi sweetheart, I love you’ — I get that in 12 languages,” Alltree says.

The building and its surrounding courtyard have free Wi-Fi, a strong enticement for ABs (able-bodied seamen) who sometimes make as little as $585 a month.

“One of the most important factors in a seafarer’s life is the ability to communicate with their families,” says Alltree. “That and a bottle of beer.”

This prompts the inevitable question: what about a bottle of rum? “No, my dear,” Alltree answers, “this is an Anglican mission: it’s either Scotch or sherry.”

The polyglot cohort of international seamen may not have a lingua franca, but they all know how to order a drink in any port of call, from Toronto to Tonkin: raising a wrist.

(In sober tones, she emphasizes that the mission does not have a liquor licence, except occasionally for special events. “Lots of pop in the fridge,” Alltree says, laughing.)

Once thirst has been quenched and families reassured, priorities become a little more esoteric. First: Best Buy, to stock up on tech supplies and make sure they’re able to call home at will. Second: Victoria’s Secret. Like the lingerie company? That’s right, says Alltree — it’s a way to placate long-suffering wives. “No self-respecting Filipino seafarer would go home without something from Victoria’s Secret.”

Lower down on the priority list is religious observance, the ostensible purpose of the mission, whose closet-sized chapel does not look worn from overuse.

Many of the sailors are Polish or Filipino Catholics, for whom the idea of a female priest like Alltree doesn’t fly. Combine that with the traditional worldliness of seafaring men, and the religious temperature of the mission rarely rises above tepid.

As the reverend herself put it, “They don’t come madly dashing in here saying, ‘Please can we have a prayer service.’ ”

Still, Alltree tends to her floating flock with the available means. Beginning in November, before ice clogs the Toronto waterway, she suits up in a hard hat and steel-toe boots to bring Christmas care packages to the sailors before they’ve disembarked.

While she walks the deck, she keeps an eye out for distraught or disgruntled sailors.

“When there’s a problem, they’re usually pretty reluctant to go to the shipmaster,” Alltree explains. “Listening is a big part of our job. . . . First they want to talk to their wives, then they want to talk to you.”

Life at sea provides plenty of fodder for the confessor’s booth, or the shrink’s couch. Rum, sodomy and the lash may be things of the past but tight quarters, lousy food and long spells of loneliness are unavoidable aboard ship. All of this makes the global network of cheap consumer goods possible: employing 20 crew members for an ocean crossing costs chump change for shipping conglomerates.

“We know the ocean from the shore,” Alltree said. “The main thing is to raise awareness about how so few people are working so hard for so many others.

“It’s called the invisible industry. You just don’t see it.”

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